


Music is the Food

by seekingmoonscapes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John tries violin, M/M, Sherlock is a terrible teacher, then there are blowjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 14:36:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9389450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seekingmoonscapes/pseuds/seekingmoonscapes
Summary: After Sherlock’s failed lesson, John didn’t give the violin another thought. Then he tripped over it.





	

“As ever Lestrade, the London Metropolitian Police’s remarkable talent for stupidity astounds me.”

John winced as he soaked another food-encrusted plate beneath the soapy suds in his washing up bowl.

“I didn’t come here to be insulted, Sherlock.”

“The real diamonds were never stolen- it’s an insurance swindle. The real ones were probably sold off weeks ago.”

“How do you figure that?” Lestrade sounded genuinely perplexed.

“The case.”

“The case?”

“Yes, the case – it’s alarmed against smashes but the lock is simple enough to pick with a hairpin. Any self-respecting thief would have never used such an extravagant technique when there was an obvious, safer alternative.”

“It’s a nice theory Sherlock, but how does that __prove__  the diamonds were fake? It could just have been an amateur burglar.”

John looked up just in time to see Sherlock giving Lestrade the most withering expression possible.

“You must have such an __interesting__  brain Lestrade, full of all sorts of rubbish. It’s a lock you could pick with a __hairpin__. Nobody puts real diamonds in that case __overnight__. So, insurance swindle – they needed foolproof evidence for the insurance company but they were an independent, couldn’t afford a security camera, so they broke the glass. Simple.” Sherlock sniffed haughtily, his bow sawing an irritated screech on the instrument in his lap.

Lestrade shook his head, “Well, we can look into it. Still can’t say I’m convinced, but God knows you’ve never been wrong before.” His voice grew a wicked edge, “Still there’s a first time for everything.” He turned swiftly on his heel, called a quick goodbye to John and then disappeared down the stairs to the tune of Sherlock’s particularly savage attack on his violin strings.

 “Sherlock?... Sherlock!” Getting no response John sighed. He poured the contents of the washing up bowl down the sink and, wiping his soapy hands on his jeans, he stepped back into the front room. Mercifully, the playing stopped.

“I’m bored!” Sherlock complained emphatically, “All the criminals in London seem to have hit a downslide since Moriarty went into hiding. It’s as if IQ points have been inextricably lost down whatever drain he’s crawled into.”

“That’s no reason to take it out on the neighbours.” John flopped onto the vacant sofa and grumbled, “Or on me for that matter.” as he chose a newspaper from the coffee table. It was from three weeks ago.

“You don’t like my playing, John?”

“I never said that.”

“Yes you did.”

“ _ _No__. I didn’t. I said there was no need to take out your boredom on the people around you. If you actually want to play then go ahead.”

“I don’t want to play.”

“Fine.” He really should have seen it coming.

“I want you to play.”

“Fi- what?”

“I want you to play, in fact...” Sherlock jumped from his seat and began to rummage through his desk. “here! This one. Nice and simple. You do read music, don’t you? Yes you do, I’ve seen you do it before.” He thrust the paper under John’s nose.

“Sherlock, I am not playing the violin, I wouldn’t have a clue. Besides, I haven’t read music in years –decades even.”

“It’ll come back to you.” Sherlock replied flippantly, “and of course you don’t know how to play - that’s why I’m going to teach you.”

John stared up at him incredulously but the detective remained unmoved and, for some reason only God could understand, he took the music.

“Why do I do this to myself?”

“Call it: self-improvement.” Sherlock replied, delighted. He pushed the violin into John’s reluctant hands. “Now place the black rest under your chin...”

It took less than an hour for Sherlock to give it up as a lost cause.

-

The London Underground during rush hour was a beehive; by the time John was home half of London had somehow come in contact with areas of his body that hadn’t had dealings with another person since his last girlfriend two years ago.

“Sherlock? Are you in?” John yelled as he jiggled his keys out of his pocket and scooped up the post.

“John? Weren’t you working late this evening?”

“Yeah . They didn’t need me in the end.” Unlocking the door John made his way into the empty sitting room. He threw the post carelessly onto the coffee table and hung his jacket up next to Sherlock’s trench coat. “Tea?” He toed off his shoes on the way to the kitchen.

Sherlock banged down the stairs, “No, thank you. On my way out.”

“Oh? Where to?” John glanced up at the detective and froze halfway through filling the kettle. “...Sherlock?” He blinked as though it would cause the teenage kid suddenly standing in the doorway; with poker straight hair swept to one side, a pair of baggy drainpipe jeans and a _cardigan_ ; to suddenly morph back into being his flatmate.

“John.” The teenager replied, his lips twitching in his amusement. It was definitely Sherlock’s voice.

“Do I even want to know?”

“Well, you do seem to have taken a keen interest in my cases, if your unfaithful online accounts of our adventures are anything to go by. Sorry I can’t take you with me; this one’s a little... delicate. I’ll tell you all about it later.” He grabbed his coat and scarf from the stand.

The door banged behind him and John could only shake his head with wonder.

-

A finger, nail trim and clean, pushed a small, worn button and its owner stared listlessly at the changing images flashing across the screen. John sighed and wondered when it was that Sherlock’s demands and mad episodes had become the entertainment of his evenings. His eyes flicked to the phone lying on his bedside table.

“Tea,” he muttered to himself and left the television playing as he strolled out of his room, down the stairs and into the front room. His entry into the kitchen was a little less graceful. In the gloomy dusk, he missed the case that Sherlock had decided, in his wisdom, to place up against the doorway and a loud expletive echoed through the flat. He untangled his legs from the cause of his downfall, kicking it away in frustration, and pushed himself up, heading straight for the light switch.

The violin case lay accusingly in the middle of the floor.

“Yes, OK, I know it wasn’t _your_  fault.” He informed it, and then wondered whether Sherlock talking to a skull was any worse than him talking to a violin case. Or better even; at least the skull had once had the ability to understand.

He’d left his last mug upstairs so there was brief flurry of searching through Sherlock’s debris to find another. The kettle was still half full so it was just a flick of a switch and a long wait for the relic to boil. They’d had a new kettle when they moved in; then Sherlock got his hands on it and Mrs Hudson had been forced to root through her cupboards for a temporary substitute. Sherlock probably hadn’t even noticed the new time lag between his demand and the finished product materialising in his hand.

John picked the case off the floor and deposited it on the desk in the front room. He flicked it open just to make sure he hadn’t somehow managed to smash the violin to smithereens, which would have been perfectly typical. He ran his hand over its varnished finished, checking for cracks.

John heard it sometimes when he had gone to bed; long, aching notes, quick, happy tunes, harsh, angry chords – snatches of music that slipped through the floorboards. He’d heard it last night when Sherlock had been demonstrating what he was _supposed_ to sound like; the violin would sing for Sherlock. It had screeched for John.

_Place the black rest beneath your chin and support the violin with your shoulder – your **left** shoulder, John!_

The bow materialised in his hand, fingers curled, protesting against the awkward form. He tried to remember what Sherlock had told him.

_Little finger ... here and your forefinger... needs to be...here. Yes, yes, that’ll do._

He’d been impatient and possibly the worst kind of teacher: rude, arrogant – enthusiastic though, John couldn’t fault him for that.

The music was still on the desk, though John had to turn the light on to see where Sherlock had scribbled the fingerings under the bars. The first note was a caterwaul and neither the second nor third improved on it; he kept going though, sawed out the whole song and then laughed at how awful it was. The second rendition was just as bad, and he was making so much noise that he didn’t even notice Sherlock coming in until the door banged behind him.

“Sherlock!” He exclaimed, his heart still jumping from the shock.

“Your fingers are wrong. It’s the third finger that needs to be spaced, not the second.”  Sherlock pulled off his leather gloves, dropping them in a convenient chair. There was little left of the teenager who had left the house only a few hours ago, just an uncharacteristic pair of converse peeking from beneath his coat. Even the curls were back. “I didn’t expect you to try again,” he added as he strode across the room. He corrected John’s grip on the violin neck, his fingers surprisingly cold.

“Neither did I.”

“You need a looser grip on the bow.” He plucked it from John’s offending grasp.

“So where have you been?”

“Hmm? Oh, nightclub. It’s the kind of place these people do business. Now, you want to hold it like this.”

“…Sherlock? What are you doing?”

“I’m showing you how to hold the bow.”

“From behind me?”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s arm curled round his shoulder, laying the bow neatly across the violin strings, and the cold of his coat seeped through John’s clothes.

“John?” Sherlock queried when John shivered. The bow remained poised, waiting for the order.

“You’re cold.” John answered redundantly.

“Well, it is winter, John, and I had to walk back to the flat because there were no cabs. What were you expecting?”

“Never mind.”

They played the note together, the strings dug grooves into John’s fingertips and the bow dragged from them a strong, clear note.

“See?” The deep baritone hummed over John’s skin.

“Hmm.”

“Now try a G.”

John’s fingers moved into a facsimile of the position, but his mind was more focused on odd, inconsequential things. The strands of hair teasing the nape of his neck; the sound of breathing breaking through the silence of the room; the tang of sweat and booze and musk. Sherlock sighed irritably and the air rushed along John’s jaw as Sherlock’s free hand came up to correct his faux pas. John was completely enclosed.

John could tell the exact second the brilliant mind finally realised the position into which he’d pulled them: Sherlock’s fingers froze in place, his breath hitching in surprise, and John swallowed as he felt himself come under a new scrutiny.

It was almost silent, the hiss of a sudden intake of breath, but John’s mind, still focusing on the minutiae, latched onto it like it was the most important thing in the world. Maybe it was, if John considered what it might mean. The breath on his neck was hot now and John determinedly repressed a shiver as he caught the glimpse of dark hair in the corner of his eye.

 “Sherlock.” It was meant to be a question; it came out more like a prayer. There was a stutter in the heat blown across his skin and when Sherlock shifted behind him, he felt every move. For a moment, John was so still he could count Sherlock’s heartbeats against his back.

He wasn’t expecting the kiss, warm and gentle against his exposed neck, and neither, apparently, was Sherlock.

John whirled around before Sherlock could run and grabbed the first thing he could: that scarf. He was close enough to see that the eyes he had thought were grey were actually a soft, faded jade. They flicked, wide and wild, to the escape routes and John’s fingers curled a little deeper into soft, blue wool, opening his mouth to speak but not finding the words. He struggled for a second with how to address this, whether he even wanted to, but then those eyes landed squarely on him and even the desire for speech was lost.

The lamplight cut across Sherlock’s cheek, capturing the high bone under a golden glow on one side but leaving the other in secretive shadow. John’s gaze followed the lines it made: the crease in Sherlock’s eyelid, the soft silhouette of his proud nose, the shading in the hollow of his cheek, the subtle swell of his lips – half light, half dark just like all the contradictions hidden beneath that pale, pale skin.

His hand tightened again, dragging Sherlock forward and, even though he hadn’t meant to, suddenly this seemed like the best idea John had ever had. There was the briefest moment, when neither of them breathed, when neither of them moved, and then John leant in.

 Sherlock’s mouth was slack, rendered useless by surprise, but a few chaste, insistent kisses coaxed an almost frantic response and John was ravaged; by teeth, lips and tongue; by hands -buried in his hair, fisted in his shirt - clutching at him desperately. Sherlock moaned long and broken against his mouth like a parched man taking his first sweet taste of water.

It was the clatter of the violin that ruined it all.

-

The morning after he got a pissy post-it note demanding milk and tea bags.

It was almost like living with a ghost; one that could only touch writing implements and consume the contents of his tea caddy. It would also wait until John was in bed, at work, on one occasion, in the shower; before materialising and leaving neon yellow notes in its wake. The most recent was currently sitting at the bottom of what had been, when John had gone out that morning, a full carton of butter. He didn’t want to know what Sherlock had done with it.

The toaster released his lunch and John sighed, clicking the lid to the butter tub back in place before throwing it in the bin. He ate his toast dry, his eyes flicking to the untouched violin locked back inside its case. He hadn’t touched it since the night Sherlock had ran, had nestled it back into its velvet bed, locked the lid and left it; but it didn’t stop the memories.

_Long fingers slipping through his hair, desperate, biting kisses and an urgent tongue pressing into his mouth; John surrenders easily to the onslaught. Sherlock’s cheek is just a little bit rough and John’s fingertips find it unreasonably fascinating, the violin slipping from his grasp as his other hand comes up to investigate._

John had genuinely never been interested in another man his whole life, but of course, Sherlock had stopped being just another man about five minutes after John had met him; less than a day later he’d pretty much proved himself inhuman. Or superhuman. John could never tell from one moment to the next what Sherlock would be. The man was frustrating, infuriating, exasperating... exciting.

_“And I said dangerous, and here you are.”_

But John had met dangerous men before, exciting men; the army was full of them. None of them made his skin flush or his breathing shallow; none of them made him want to push them against the nearest surface, spread them open and claim them, slow and deep.

 Sherlock was exceptional in this regard as he was in everything else.

John gave up on his toast and sighed, his head flopping back against the armchair. He could already feel the blood rushing downwards at nothing but a fleeting __idea__. The imagery was fast to follow; soft, sensual lips parted for breaths snatched from the air as though any might be the last; thighs spread and trembling, John’s fingers working between them as he drew out of every exquisite sound; a pale, long neck exposed to the pleasure of John’s eager mouth, he’d leave marks, beautiful and red and his; and those hands, those clever hands that could compel a bit of wood and a few strings to cry, to laugh, to sing; they could do the same to John. Could drag him closer, deeper; could tease him, taunt him; could drive him __mad.__

And John would want it.

John would crave it, just like he did now, with a hand pushed down his pants, his fly only half undone in his rush to __touch__. He set a punishing pace, his palm already slick with sweat as he thrust into his grasp. The angle was awkward, and the cramp was already starting in his wrist, but he couldn’t bear to stop. Not now his imagination had Sherlock reckless and demanding, impossibly long legs wrapped around his waist and urging him in.

He came at the memory of pale green eyes, of fingers tugging at his hair and wild, desperate kisses.

-

The violin was hidden in the airing cupboard; a juvenile reaction and it led to a less than impressed post-it note from Sherlock the following day. Having no interest in a lecture on violin maintenance John ignored the note to his error; apparently there had been small print on the back warning him about the dead parrot in the freezer.

It was not shaping up to be a brilliant day, and Mycroft’s name showing up on his caller ID did not promise to improve it any. He almost didn’t answer it but as previous experience showed, Mycroft was nothing if not patiently persistent.

“Good evening, John. I trust you are well?”

“Fine, thank you. Also, if this is because Sherlock is ignoring you I’m telling you in advance that he’s ignoring me too.”

“Oh, I am aware. His childishness is costing me quite a considerable amount of money.”

“He’s costing you…” John took a second to consider that sentence. “ _ _He’s with you?__ ”

“Oh God no, Sherlock would never actually __live__  with me. He has, however, taken refuge in one of the hotel apartments under my name.”

“Hotel __apartments__?”

“Yes, quite expensive as you can imagine.”

“So you want me to drag him out?”

“Well, as you are the reason he’s there in the first place, it does have a certain kind of logic.”

“How do you- I mean…”

“Are you sure you want the answer to that question?”

“Err… no?”

“No.” John could practically hear the man’s smirk coming through the phone. “The address is 45 Beaufort Gardens, Mayfair. Tell him you’re the Chinese delivery.”

“But he knows my…” the call cut off, “voice…” John sighed and rubbed his face irritably. “Is it a genetic trait or did you both decide at an early age to be as exasperating as possible?” He asked the disconnected phone line.

It didn’t reply.

-

Beaufort House was less than ten minutes from Baker Street; nestled comfortably in a striking Regency terrace that practically stank of money. It was a nice view though: a thick cream paint for the bottom floor and soft yellow brick for the rest, with long, thin windows and delicate black iron lattice window boxes that bristled with little bushes smothered in clumps of flowers.

John dithered by the door for a few seconds. Because he was looking for some kind of bell or buzzer he told himself (because it __was__  weird, just walking into what looked so much like someone’s house) but he knew it was really the same twisting of his gut that had led to the violin’s new resting place.

Inside was just like any reception, although perhaps a little grander than John was used to, with low spotlights that gave the wood laminate flooring a golden glow but left darkened corners for fake potted plants and ornate tables to decorate. The girl at the desk was friendly and when he mentioned Mycroft Holmes she even upgraded to helpful; though there was a little tightening around her jaw which indicated she was less than impressed with Mycroft’s first guest and was hoping John wouldn’t prove as difficult.

“Mr Holmes’s apartment is just this way, sir.” She said with a smile as she lead him past a particularly abstract canvas to a plain white door adorned with a gleaming bronze 1.

“Thank you.” John said after she’d pointed out the bell next to it. She flashed him another smile and clicked back to her desk on somewhat impractical heels. John stared after her helplessly because even though dealing with Sherlock alone had been the idea from the start, he was even less fond of the plan now it was in action than he had been when he’d been informed of it.

He could always go home now, because if Mycroft really wanted Sherlock out he’d come and do it himself eventually. Unfortunately the idea left a bad taste in his mouth that smacked of cowardice and John wasn’t a coward; he hadn’t been a coward when he was crammed in a medical tent with more patients than supplies and the sand was being filled with the one’s he couldn’t save; he hadn’t been a coward when he’d run through the rain of bullets to treat men he wasn’t even sure were alive; he wasn’t going to be a coward now, running from a slightly neurotic, infuriating detective, who had somehow become his best friend, just because he made John a little weak at the knees.

John pressed the button.

The buzz was muffled through the door and not ten seconds later an irritated voice crackled through the speakers.

“What?“

“I was told to tell you I’m the Chinese delivery.”

There was a long pause and John was almost certain Sherlock had gone to hole himself up in the bedroom and ignore John’s existence completely. He pressed the bell again just as the door opened.

“Oh.”

“You thought I was going to ignore you?”

“It seemed a reasonable possibility, yes.” John admitted a little shamefully, but Sherlock didn’t reply, just opened the door a little wider to let him in. John drank the sight of him in as though he hadn’t seen him for years. The dark curls were as untamed as ever and his cheeks just a shade away from worryingly gaunt. He was comfortable enough to have shed his jacket; his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and out of the way of whatever had splashed over Sherlock’s hands and wrists. Not quite comfortable enough for his robe though and the thought settled a little smugly into the corners of John’s mind.

“Mycroft, I suppose?”

“Err, yeah. He’s had enough of paying for you apparently.”

Sherlock snorted, “As if he can’t afford it.”

The sitting room was a plush affair. The carpet was soft and spongy beneath John’s feet, a dark grey that matched the two parallel sofas. Crimson cushions gave an almost boudoir feel to the room; a feel only augmented by the roses, housed in an onyx vase on the coffee table; the black lattice mirror hanging on the chimney breast and the heavy red curtains tied away from the windows. Of course the effect was somewhat ruined by the clutter that had amassed over every available surface.

Sherlock stood in the middle of it all, arms crossed defensively, with an expectant frown and John realised he had no idea what to say.

“Err…”

“So Mycroft sent you to come a drag me out.” He looked John up and down, no doubt reading all of John’s reluctance, uncertainty and discomfort in one swift sweep. John glared back at him because sometimes he hated that Sherlock could do that.

“Yes, you could say that.” John’s eyes flitted round the room, catching clues to what Sherlock had been doing for the last week; chemical experiments, newspaper reports, whiskey bottles; and then his eyes alighted on the violin lying on the sofa as though Sherlock had just put it down, preparing to come back to it, but had got lost in whatever substances had stained his fingers.

Sherlock followed his gaze, “Well I could hardly leave it at home after seeing what you’d done with it.” It came out a little petulant and a little accusing and John found himself apologising even though his mind was being pulled back under that blanket of memories that had led to the violin’s banishment in the first place.

And now Sherlock was staring at him warily and it was too late for John to pretend that he hadn’t been remembering.

“Sherlock… we should…” he didn’t finish the sentence; just let it trail off as he turned his head to stare at the veiled window, a hand coming up to rub his mouth. It was a tell that Sherlock would catch in an instant but John was not the type of man to hide his thoughts behind cold stares and fancy wording.

“Talk?” Sherlock offered, and when John glanced back the detective’s eyes were dark and unreadable but he wasn’t backing off, not just yet. Sherlock always did appreciate honesty.

“Or something.” John gave him a wry smile because he was well aware neither of them were paradigms of emotional health.

“Or something.” Sherlock agreed as he busied himself with clearing a seat on the sofa behind him. A sheaf of loose paper spilled onto the floor and John couldn’t help but snort as he recognised some of the scrawling as messages that had been left on post-it notes around their house. Sherlock threw him a glare. “Sit.” he commanded and pointed at the spare seat on the other side of the coffee table, the one next to the violin. John did as he was told, eyeing the instrument almost wistfully.

Sherlock reclined over the space he made himself, his eyes watching John unwaveringly. To an outsider he didn’t __seem__  uncomfortable, but the little downwards turn of his mouth spoke volumes to John. John’s hands fluttered uncertainly before settling themselves on his lap, curling into his thighs as though it would ground the nervous energy suddenly thrumming through his reins. Neither of them said a word.

Suddenly the absurdity of it all bubbled up in John’s chest and he laughed, collapsing against the chair’s back as his body quivered beneath the peals. Sherlock’s stare took on a look of consternation but John just shook his head and giggled for a few seconds more.

“John, if this is your descent into madness then I must say it’s poorly timed.”

That set him off again and Sherlock’s lips twitched a little before he schooled his features into a more stern expression.

“John, honestly, how are we going to have a serious conversation if you’re going to dissolve into giggles every five minutes?”

John flashed him a grin and apologised, “Sorry. A serious conversation then, where would you like to start?”

“How about I remind you of what I said the first time you showed an interest in me? I really do consider myself married to my work John.” He said it the last bit gently, almost carefully, as though he was testing the truth of the statement by declaring it out loud. The sound of it pulled John back to sobriety and he replied with a shake of his head.

“No… No. I was not showing an interest - I said that at the time too. This…the way I… this is recent.”

“Oh,” Sherlock hesitated before replying, “I wasn’t lying when I said I was flattered.”

 It took John a few seconds to realise what he wasn’t saying. “You mean… then?”

“Not…” John watched the detective struggle with his words for the first time in their tumultuous acquaintance. “… in quite the sense you’re thinking, but yes, I was… attracted to you. You weren’t __boring__.”

And John understood. He wouldn’t have, when he was that tired, frustrated ex-soldier sitting at a table with possibly the maddest man he’d ever met, trying to explain that ‘No, he wasn’t gay and no, he wasn’t interested’, but he did now. He had the holes in his wall to prove how much Sherlock __hated__ boredom, and had seen the disdainful, exasperated glances he gave to rest of mankind when they were unceasingly predictable.

“Oh.” he breathed and Sherlock looked away, embarrassed. The two of them sat in silence as John slowly considered what to say next. “Sherlock.” His voice was soft because John actually was afraid that Sherlock might just run for it if he pushed too hard. “I – You… I consider you one of my closest friends. __The__  closest, in fact. I don’t want to risk that.”

Sherlock’s mouth jerked into a quick, taut smile before he looked back, “Neither do I. I think it would be best if we just-” John was never going to let him finish that sentence.

“Sherlock. I don’t want to __risk__  that, but if you tell me you want to pretend this,” he gestured between the two of them, “never happened; then I don’t think I’ll be able to live with you any more.”

The shock that rushed through Sherlock’s system was almost tangible and John watched calmly as the detective’s face, for a brief moment, let all his emotions play across his face before it clouded over again. ~~~~

“I’m not going to keep you if you want to go John.” Sherlock replied stiffly, his spine straightening out of its dignified slouch.

“I don’t want to go.” John glared back.

“You just said you did.”

“No, I said I might have to. Contrary to popular belief, I’m not _that_ masochistic.” John’s mouth twisted into a dry smile.

Sherlock seemed a little taken aback. The idea that ignoring the issue would _be_ an issue had probably not even crossed his mind; it was, after all, the logical course of action.

“I know; I’m being ‘stupid and illogical’.”

“I have never said that.” Sherlock retorted defensively.

“You say that about everyone Sherlock?”

“ _ _You__ _ _’re__  different.” Sherlock insisted and even though he had said it before, it still sent an involuntary shiver down John’s spine. The words were out before John could even think to stop them.

“Show me.”

Sherlock stilled, his eyes scrutinising every inch of John’s face as he considered the demand. Any other man would have pushed John on his back by now, but then John didn’t want any other man. He wanted the man who would weigh up every pro and every con; would think about it, analyse it; would stand slowly, predatory, to prowl over to him with a kind of feline grace that made John’s mouth go dry.

Sherlock bent down, his hands planted on either side of John’s head and the two of them stared at each other.

“Show you?” His murmur was dangerous and John swallowed, his eyes hooded and his blood surging through his veins so fast he could have sworn Sherlock could hear it. He didn’t budge an inch.

“Show me, Sherlock.” he repeated, sure and daring.

“And what would that prove?”

“Everything?” Sherlock laughed breathily and he was close enough for the heat of it to roll over John’s mouth. John curled his fingers into his thighs a little tighter because he had to stop them from grabbing; Sherlock had to choose.

John heard him shift, saw his arms bend at little in preparation for pushing away, and his heart sank in his chest as he waited for Sherlock to step back and tell him to leave. Except then Sherlock stopped, his eyes studying every inch of John’s face as though every thought flying through John’s mind was written there. To Sherlock, they probably were.

His lips were tentative but warm and the feel of them sent relief sliding through John’s body like he was sliding into a hot bath after a long day; the moan was inevitable. Sherlock pushed closer, his mouth becoming surer as he settled a knee between John’s spread legs and his hands came up to press John’s shoulders against the sofa.

John’s eager fingers clutched at the detective’s hips, pulling and tugging until Sherlock was straddling his lap and Sherlock could kiss his upturned mouth a little deeper. John’s fingers re-visited their fascination with the rough of Sherlock’s stubble and explored smooth planes of his chest, traced the sinew of his arms and then sank happily into Sherlock’s hair to haul him closer. Their ragged pants and strangled moans hung in the air shamelessly, fuelling the blood flooding to John’s cock. He was already aching, because Sherlock rocking in his lap dragged his clothes across his sensitive skin until John was thrusting up into the onslaught, a desperate, wordless plea spilling from his captured mouth.

He couldn’t think, not with Sherlock’s tongue lapping at his mouth like it was the only pursuit worth accomplishing anymore, and certainly not with the almost silent whimpers that broke free every time John nipped just a little bit harder at Sherlock’s lower lip. He had to pull away, try to make sense of everything, but then his tongue was tasting Sherlock’s jaw and he was kissing down that perfect, pale throat; and then Sherlock’s head tilted back like it was __surrender__  and John couldn’t remember why sense was so important.

Sherlock gasped his name and John bit down on the crook between Sherlock’s neck and his shoulder just so he could hear it again. Sherlock dug his fingers into John’s biceps, moaning as John sucked a livid red bruise into being, and he trembled in John’s arms like a newborn foal, curving a little closer so John could feel him pressed against his stomach, hard and needy.

“Clothes.” John gasped, his hands already working on Sherlock’s buttons, pulling them free so he could shove the interfering shirt down yielding arms; it fluttered to the floor where it belonged. John gazed at the toned, wiry body that had so long been hiding, and pressed worshipful kisses across the exposed chest, his mouth coming to a stop over a pink nipple so he could lick until it was tight and warm and then blow a cool breeze across it. Sherlock shivered then caught John’s chin to force him to meet his gaze. His pupils were blown wide and his stare was hazy, but there was no mistaking the desire burning beneath it.

“You’re gorgeous,” John exhaled against his mouth when he leaned up to kiss him. He’d said it to women in the past, when they’d been spread across his bed sheets, flushed and naked, their hair crushed beneath their heads as he buried himself inside them; but they all paled in comparison to this lithe, clever, enigmatic man with green eyes and white, scarred skin, and John had never meant it quite completely as he did now.

John could feel the frown, an unhappy pull at the mouth he was smothering with chaste, lingering kisses and added, “I’m serious.”

“I don’t need compliments.”

“It’s not a compliment; I’m telling you a fact.” John flicked a thumb over the nipple he’d teased to hardness and indulged himself with a soft bite at Sherlock’s pulse point.

“A fact?” Sherlock repeated amusedly and John grinned at him.

“A fact.”

“Hmm, I see.” Sherlock purred just before he dragged him back into a messy, deliciously filthy kiss. The detective rolled his hips, John’s cock fitting perfectly along the valley of his ass, but he was maddeningly slow and the strong hold of his hands kept John own hips firmly imprisoned so he could draw out the torment to his satisfaction.

“Sherlock, please!” John gasped, yanking himself away from Sherlock’s siren mouth.  John felt him shudder with pleasure and then Sherlock smiled, luxuriously sweet, his body wavering like he was getting drunk on the control. Suddenly John wanted nothing more than to be laid out for his mercy; he wanted to be naked and open and completely enthralled. “ _ _Clothes__.”

Sherlock made short work of John’s jacket, tossing it somewhere across the room so that he could do the same with John’s shirt. It had been a while, John realised, since the army had honed his body to its peak, and next to Sherlock’s lean grace he felt wanting, but then Sherlock’s long fingers traced reverentially over his skin and John forgot how to breathe.

“God…” Sherlock’s voice was dark, gravelly and pure sex and, now that his hips were free, John could thrust against that perfect ass. They moaned together and Sherlock fell upon him like it was imperative that he map every inch of John’s body with his tongue to survive. His mouth sought the scar spread across his shoulder, traced round where the stitches- rushed and imperfect – had marred the perfect circle of the bullet hole. John gasped because nobody else knew that part of John and the intimacy of it sent goosebumps tingling through his skin.

Blindly, John flung an arm to the seat next to them, catching the violin neck in his hand - the cool wood a shocking contrast to the scorch of Sherlock’s skin - and let it tumble to floor, the bow following after it as he tried to justify the concept of lying down to a zealous Sherlock. Luckily the detective seemed to be in agreement and John manoeuvred him down, gasping as their hips slotted together and Sherlock rubbed against him wantonly.  

“W-Wait!” John stammered out, forcing his body taut so he didn’t just thrust down and __grind__  and grabbing the slim hips beneath him because this was Sherlock and getting the damn man to obey any kind of order was frankly impossible. Sherlock growled unhappily, his teeth nipping the soft underside of John’s chin. “God, you’re impatient.” John complained, but his mouth was smiling even as he trailed a line of kisses down Sherlock’s chest; detouring to tease each nipple with long, wet stripes of his tongue just because they made Sherlock squirm; down to the detective’s trembling bellybutton so he could fuck his tongue in and out of it as he slowly undid the fastenings of Sherlock’s trousers and revealed everything to his curious scrutiny.

Sherlock’s cock jutted proudly from his body, thick and red and curved slightly to the left, and John was instantly fascinated. He left Sherlock’s underwear and trousers bunched at his knees to run an inquisitive hand along the length of this new discovery; it twitched beneath his touch and Sherlock groaned harshly, lifting up into his gentle grip.

 The tip was dripping, a mesmerising contrast to its scarlet flush. John trailed his thumb through it first and his tongue through it second, lapping up bitter-salt as Sherlock’s breathing hitched above him. He was watching and John couldn’t resist glancing up to catch Sherlock’s gaze before he licked again, his tongue a deliberate flick of pink over the tip. Sherlock gaped back and John felt the grin wrap around his mouth, cocky and lascivious, just before he dropped down to slide the head into his mouth, a hand wrapping round the base as Sherlock jerked upwards gasping out a curse. 

He sucked tightly, hollowing his cheeks and tucking his teeth beneath his lips as he bobbed his head slowly, his eyes still holding Sherlock’s gaze. He could smell the sex and sweat on Sherlock skin and it made him ache harder for some friction of his own. He canted his hips higher in the air so he could get a hand into his trousers and grab his cock in a snug grip. He played with his pace, sometimes fast so he could hear Sherlock’s breath come out in rough racing pants; sometimes slow so he could drag moans of want into the air. Eventually, Sherlock reached his limit and his head fell back against the sofa arm and he groaned, “John, I need…”

He didn’t get to finish that sentence because John had already reclaimed his mouth, wrenching his trousers out of the way and realigning their hips until he could press their aching cocks together, and Sherlock surrendered a little moan of relief into John’s mouth. Their hips rocked and pushed recklessly, thrusting with more frantic force than finesse, as their tongues tangled together, hands clutching and scraping over bare skin. Sherlock came first; a short, sweet sob heralding the arch of his body as come streaked across his chest, and after that John only needed a few, hot thrusts into the curve of Sherlock’s hip; the detective’s name burning across his tongue as ecstasy exploded in his abdomen and shuddered through his every cell.

Sherlock’s body was still quivering with the aftershocks when John slowly became aware of the world around him again. John couldn’t even the call the strength to shift from his collapsed position across the detective’s chest so he listened to Sherlock’s heartbeat instead, a loud, steady drum and enjoyed the feel of tingling, swollen lips. 

He was surprised when fingers began skimming through his hair. He tilted his head up and found Sherlock looking back, his head a little squashed against the armrest and chin tucked into his chest. John felt the beginnings of a smile twitching through his tired muscles and Sherlock returned it for a second before his brow bent into a barely perceptible frown.

“Perhaps you should start seeing your therapist more often.” Sherlock murmured absently.

“What?” For John, it was a little too early for conversation.

“Your therapist. More often.”

John raised his eyebrows, “What are you talking about?”

“This situation. It’s not… what normal people would do.”

 “Not it isn’t.” John agreed and then yawned. Sherlock weighed that statement for a second and then smiled.

“I suppose we’re quite suitable then.” He murmured, his fingers stilling in John’s hair, and it was the closest to a confession as John was ever going to get, so he grinned and summoned up the energy to move and claim Sherlock’s lips in a sloppy kiss.

“By the way, if you’ve damaged my violin you’re paying for it.”

John laughed.


End file.
